


Little Spoon

by fieryphrazes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crime Scene, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, they have a little tiff but somehow it all works out alright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:47:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9389741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fieryphrazes/pseuds/fieryphrazes
Summary: John has been left behind one too many times. When he finally lets out his frustration, the list gets longer and longer -- until he accidentally reveals something a little too personal in front of the Yard!I had the image of John yelling "And you never let me be the big spoon!" and so... This is what happened.





	

It had just started to drizzle when John rounded the corner and spotted the crime scene tape. He swore under his breath and slapped his feet down harder on the pavement. When he got to the line of yellow tape, Sally waved him under with one hand, the other holding a cell phone to her ear. She rolled her eyes at him.

“His Majesty is over there,” she pointed. John gave a curt nod and turned toward Sherlock.

He was crouched over a body, with Lestrade peering over his shoulder. John couldn’t stop the quick stream of information: woman, 25 to 30, unnaturally red hair, asphyxiation. Probably. He circled around the body to stand in front of Sherlock, crossed his arms, and waited.

Soon, Sherlock straightened to his full height, towering over Lestrade.

“Look for a co-worker – up for the same promotion. A man, I think. Tired of being second best,” Sherlock rattled off. He glanced up, noticed John, and smiled. _The genuine one_ , John thought with a hint of bitterness.

“Ah, there you are, John –“ but Sherlock didn’t get to finish the sentence. John rocked forward onto his toes and interrupted.

“Five bloody minutes, Sherlock! You couldn’t wait for me to fetch a pair of socks? I’m sick of this, I mean it. Being left behind, forgotten, completely neglected. You never give me a second thought! I’m just there, like… like the kettle or the bloody goddamn skull. I have _had_ it, Sherlock!” It was a relief to let it all out, and John found, somewhat unexpectedly, that he couldn’t stop. Sherlock merely stared at him, stunned. John shook his head.

“I swear, you don’t even see me unless I’m fetching your phone from your front pocket! All I do is buy the milk, make the tea, bring you a sandwich… Answer your bloody texts,” John growled. Lestrade was slowly backing away from him now, and Sherlock had his hands up, palms facing outward, a clear defensive position.

“No! I don’t want to hear it, Sherlock! You take advantage of me! All I do is your dirty work. And you never let me be the big spoon!”

If Sherlock had looked stunned before, at the last item on the list, he was positively shocked. Lestrade stopped his creep backwards, and somewhere behind him, Sally dropped her cell phone.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, “Perhaps we should discuss this at home.”

All his bravado suddenly evaporated, and John rubbed the back of his neck.

“Alright, yeah. Done here?” He gave Sherlock a quick glare before turning on his heel and walking right off the crime scene, ducking under the police tape. Sally finally managed to close her mouth as he walked past.

Lestrade let out a breath and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

“Sounds like you’re in trouble, mate,” he said. Sherlock just rolled his eyes and walked after John.

 

_This is possibly the worst cab ride of my life_ , John thought on the drive home. Sherlock didn’t say a word, just stared out the window. He didn’t reach out for John’s hand, of course – and John couldn’t blame him. Not after that dressing-down – in front of the Yard! He cursed himself inwardly. _Not my best moment_ , he thought.

When the cab pulled up at Baker Street, Sherlock paid without a word. He opened the front door, and waited for John to pass through. Once they’d climbed the stairs, John looked at Sherlock warily.

“I didn’t think you minded,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Being treated like a servant? Of course I mind,” John said. “In the end, it all comes out alright. But I mind, Sherlock.”

Sherlock just shook his head and looked at John as though he were short a few million brain cells.

“Not that,” Sherlock said. “The… spoon thing.” He struggled to get the words out.

John sighed, stepped close to Sherlock, and wrapped his arms around his waist. John’s head fit snugly under Sherlock’s chin. He hesitated for a moment.

“It makes me feel small,” John said.

Sherlock brought his arms up to John’s shoulders.

“But you fit so perfectly,” he said, genuinely confused. John shook his head, which only served to burrow him deeper into Sherlock’s neck.

“Because I’m small,” John replied. He felt a kiss dropped into his hair.

“You’re within the standard deviation for British males,” Sherlock said plainly. John let out a huff.

“Not the point, Sherlock.” John tilted his head back to see Sherlock’s face. His brows were drawn up in confusion.

“But that’s exactly the point! You’re perfectly average,” Sherlock protested. John just rolled his eyes, pressed a kiss to the tip of Sherlock’s nose, and disentangled himself. He set about making tea. Sherlock wandered off to the living room.

“I’ll explain later why ‘perfectly average’ isn’t a compliment,” John called out after him.

 

John was sitting up in bed, re-reading _Hitchhiker’s Guide_ for the millionth time, when Sherlock crept into their bedroom. He hesitated at the door.

“Don’t be daft,” John said and motioned him over to the bed.

Sherlock lay down cautiously, curling up on his side – his back to John.

Glancing over his shoulder, he gave John a curious look.

John smiled, set the book aside, and switched off the lamp. He scooted in and wound an arm over Sherlock’s side. His eyes were level with Sherlock’s shoulder blades, and he rested his forehead between them. He felt Sherlock sigh – contentedly, he thought – and let out one of his own before drifting off to sleep.


End file.
